


Respira

by gamefish



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamefish/pseuds/gamefish
Summary: Grantaire and Enjolras go to see In the Heights, but it hits Grantaire too close to home. Enjolras reminds him to breathe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I meant this to be fluff but it may have turned into hurt/comfort. It's really just me thinking through the end of In the Heights--Lin Manuel Miranda's first show before Hamilton. Hopefully you don't need to know the show to understand the fic, but without context, this song might help: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSQFjtszBYg. Blanket permission, etc. Unbeta'd.

Grantaire was up and out of his seat the moment the applause died. “That was absolutely brilliant. What did you think, love? Wasn’t the score amazing?” Enjolras asked, too caught up in his elation to notice the redness around Grantaire’s eyes, or his desperate desire to talk about anything else but the show.

“Good. It was really good,” Grantaire replied, speeding up slightly as they headed out the doors into the cold night air. In the Heights had been his idea for a date night, but it had hit closer to home than he expected. Like jackhammer to the heart close. He wanted a drink but tea would have to do.

“‘Taire? You there?” Enjolras had been talking about machismo and The Patriarchy, or maybe sexism and hip hop...Grantaire wasn’t sure.

“Yeah, no sorry, right here. Present,” Grantaire replied. He was caught. Well, intellectually he knew it would be better to talk it out, just not on the street full of gushing suburban theatre-goers who had never stepped foot inside a bodega in their lives.

“Was it it the whitewashing? I know he was essentially parroting Miranda’s performance, but I thought the other actors of color certainly--” Grantaire loved the man but sometimes the sun god got a little closer to white savior Jesus. He didn’t need to be saved. He was fine. Enjolras slowed slightly, lightly sliding his fingers in between Grantaire’s. Maybe he could still evade.

“No it wasn’t the whitewashing Apollo. I’m fine. It was just a little much, that’s all.” Enjolras raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re never fine when you call me Apollo. What’s up? You want to talk about it now, at home, or not at all?”

Grantaire took a deep breath. It had taken a lot to get them together. A lot of talking, to be specific. And Courfeyrac meddling. But mostly communication, and communicating about when to communicate. Love languages, Myers-Briggs, you name it, they’d tried it. And then analyzed it and tore it apart, but eventually they cobbled together their own system. 

“At home.” That was a yellow. An I-can-talk-about-this-and-probably-need-to-but-tea-and-blankets-are-required-first signal.

“New topic?” Yep. Yes please. Anything. Anything but the intersectionality of his sisters’ daily catcall barrages, or the politics of the music at his first high school dance. Or God forbid bananas. Something more like...

“Why don’t you finish telling me about Combeferre’s documentary?” Perfect. Lots of words, very little retention needed. Enjolras smiled at him knowingly and began listing the various technical difficulties this latest cut presented.  
The night had cooled by the time Grantaire let them into their apartment, dropping his keys into a bowl he’d made in Intro to Ceramics three years ago. Beelining for the couch, he heard the familiar sound of Enjolras filling the kettle. Cocooning himself in his boyfriend’s favorite blanket, he tried to think of what it was that tipped him over the edge. 

Enj plopped down, handing him his blue “Helping Hands Assisted Living” mug, worn from too many uses and one accidental microwave explosion. Or controlled experiment, depending on who you asked.

“Talk, cuddle...both? Need anything besides tea?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire took the mug in both hands, tucking his feet under Enj’s thighs. Enjolras set his glass of gross cranberry concoction (“It’s healthy!”) on the coffee table and started rubbing a circle around Grantaire’s right ankle bone with his thumb. 

“I did enjoy the show, but…” There was a question hovering over his right shoulder, taunting him. He wanted to ask, but saying it out loud felt like losing. And he didn’t need to ask. He knew what Enjolras would say, could hear his voice over his left shoulder, squawking with feathers akimbo. Yet after all the arguments about school back then, maybe he needed to hear it out loud.

“Was it the grandmother? That song was rough--I almost started crying.” Grantaire had been fighting tears from the second song, and desperately needed a tissue by the fourth. He shook his head sharply to knock the petulant thought. It wasn’t a contest. He should just ask the question.

It hadn’t been the grandmother. His abuelo had been the biggest supporter of his art and losing him had been devastating. God, that should have been the straw that broke him. But that scar had healed over. This one, apparently not so much.

Pivoting to snuggle into Enj’s side, and conveniently breaking eye contact, he took a deep breath, and ripped the bandaid off.

“Do you think I’m a failure for dropping out? Should I have worked harder like you said back then and--”

Grantaire suddenly had trouble breathing as two (remarkably lovely) arms tried to squeeze the life out of him.

“Grantaire of course you’re not a failure. I will tell you that every day you need to hear it,” Enjolras insisted. He’d had protested daily when Grantaire said he wouldn’t be coming back for the spring semester two years ago, saying that he could make it work, that he was better than that. It took Grantaire showing him the numbers, the loans he’d taken out, the loans his mom had taken out, for Enjolras to see it from his perspective. It hadn’t felt worth it for an art degree that fed his soul while draining his heart. It hadn’t felt right to go on with that, and Enjolras saw that, saw him. He’d been supportive ever since, sometimes overly so. He was startled out of that train of thought by the sound of his name.

“Grantaire, what is the name of Gladys’ granddaughter’s imaginary friend?” 

Unsure of how that was at all relevant to this conversation, Grantaire simply replied, “Lulu.” Lulu visited Gladys every other Saturday and loved to watch the birds in the lobby with Gladys’ granddaughter, Angie. Apparently she also stopped by when Angie was at her dad’s. Was Lulu supposed to cheer him up somehow...?

“And what’s the easiest way to cheer Evelyn when it rains?” Enjolras asked. Oh. That’s where this was going. 

Grantaire blushed slightly, “Sneaking some decaf into her sugar free hot chocolate.”

“That’s right. And what about the wellness ratings?” Enjolras asked, sounding every bit the expectant schoolmarm.

Grantaire recited as if by rote,“The wellness ratings rose 20% with the introduction of my art classes, because I am a happiness fairy for the elderly.” Though he tried to subdue a smile, a spark of warmth traveled down his neck, pooling with the warm tea in his stomach. It had been a struggle to get the programming administrator to consider his idea for the first finger painting classes, but they’d been a hit. A hit that got him promoted from any-duties-as-assigned stooge to Programs Assistant. He’d been so proud and he finally had a job where he didn’t dread getting out of bed in the morning. Well, most mornings.

“That’s right. You’re using your gifts to better the lives of so many. Not one person in that place--not even grumpy old Mr. Sien--would ever call you a failure. You are more than your art skills, and this job lets you bring that all to the table.” Enj spoke as if he was on stage at a rally, but the effect was more powerful when Grantaire could feel the other’s muscles tense up around him in an anchoring embrace, ready for action, ready to take to the streets to prove to the world that Grantaire was amazing. 

And really, Grantaire didn’t need a reminder, but something about that show had caught him in its undertow and dragged him back three years. “I know I know. But in the story, she does decide to go back, as if dropping out was ruining her life and letting her whole family down, her neighborhood down and--” 

“You haven’t let anyone down, love.” Enjolras started running a hand through Grantaire’s hair.  
“Your family worked hard not so you could go to Stanford, but so that you could have some choices.You decided to not let a fancy four year degree define your success,” Grantaire let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like ‘social construction.’ “Yes and you carved your own path, without caving to my ignorant white middle class badgering, or the social constructs of the so-called American dream. A path that meant you didn’t have to worry so much about money that you couldn’t enjoy what you had. Sure, sticking through it might be the right choice for someone else, you’re not anybody else. You’re you. And besides, at the end of the day you still won the boy.” Enjolras gave him that familiar look, lips slightly pursed with a hint of a smile, eyes with a little glint of mischief. Grantaire took the bait, giving his boyfriend a faux-serious look and a rebuking cluck.

“I didn’t win you. I pulled your pigtails while you pulled mine until our friends literally locked us in a closet,” he said, seriousness melting into a smile at the memory. “And are you saying that people are things to be won--a prize for good behavior?” Parry, riposte. Around the worn tables of the Musain, this would have escalated quickly, but now the banter was a familiar pattern, bringing him up for a breath of air. 

Enjolras pushed on, “You’ve got me nonetheless. And I love you. I believe in you. I’m so impressed by you and how much of yourself you put into your job without letting it drain you. How you can inspire people who thought they didn’t have anything new to learn or to say. Just like you inspire me.” The earnestness in his tone was just the right side of overwhelming. 

“Thanks Enj.” Grantaire paused for a beat, collecting his thoughts. “I know that I made the right choice for me. I just needed a reminder after seeing a happy ending so different from my own.” Grantaire knew those bodegas and those fire escapes, heard those stories of a different home. Felt that pressure to make good on the family’s sacrifices that he never chose and that guilt when he couldn’t measure up. 

And he knew his mother had stopped lighting a candle for him every Sunday, because he was settled and safe. Knew that his abuelo still smiled down on his paintings, even though they hung in a cafeteria instead of a gallery.

“The people who love you,” Enjolras whispered, “We’d do anything for you--but that doesn’t mean you need us to. You’re just doing fine on your own.” 

He was, he really was. The weight on his chest--firmly ensconced by the end of the opening number--unwound and released him.

“I wouldn’t say ‘on my own,’ but I’m much happier with you by my side than I would be with that capitalist pig, Benny,” Grantaire replied, signaling his readiness to move on. In the show, the main character’s love interest was all about making money, and he didn’t need to see the look on Enjolras’ face during his solo to know Benny was not going to be his favorite character. He peeked anyway. Enjolras laughed, relaxing from full evangelist mode, and Grantaire nestled into the vibrations. 

Turning his head to look at the blinking time in the DVD player, Grantaire grimaced. Knowing what condition his back would be in if they fell asleep on the couch again, he reluctantly pushed himself up and held out a hand, “Come to bed, cariño.” Enjolras reached for his hand, but instead of standing up, he pulled him back down onto his chest, tangling their legs together.

“Five more minutes,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around Grantaire, who heard the underlying ‘I love you,’ and settled in for the night, warm and home.


End file.
